


Piss off, fascist!

by scumbaganarchy



Category: The Young Ones (TV 1982)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Fictional Religion & Theology, Homelessness, M/M, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, Tattoos, i'm not really sure how to explain what this is, unsubtle bbc bottom references, what are soulmates anyway?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-06
Updated: 2020-08-06
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:13:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25661161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scumbaganarchy/pseuds/scumbaganarchy
Summary: In a world where "soulmates" are distinguishable by the writing on everyone's hands, Rick and Vyvyan feel like they've been given a bit of a rough deal. Who has it worse? It doesn't really matter (although, for the record, it's definitely Vyvyan).
Relationships: Vyvyan Basterd/Rick (Young Ones)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 23





	Piss off, fascist!

**Author's Note:**

  * For [EvilEd](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EvilEd/gifts).



> Happy Birthday to EvilEd! <3  
> I hope you have a good one, hun! Sending lots of gross scumbag love your way. xxx
> 
> To the rest of you - if you haven't already, definitely pop over to EvilEd's page and check out her fabulous fics!
> 
> Hope you enjoy this strange Rivyan mess. XD

Children were taught – from an incredibly young age, as Rick and Vyvyan would bemoan separately in their teenage years – that somewhere in the big wide world was another person whose personality, mannerisms and eccentricities would slot right into place with their own. There was someone out there who they could spend the rest of their lives with and never want for further company. Yearning for another? That simply wouldn’t occur once these two individuals met.

_They were meant to be._

Of course, humanity’s understanding of _who exactly_ these perfect matches were to one another had changed considerably over time... which Rick knew due to borderline _obsessive_ research.

The idea of the _soulmate_ had come into being at the beginning of time itself, according to most religions. Or, as was acknowledged in more secular educational establishments, when language had become widespread enough for the strange squiggles on people’s hands to at last form words. The first words the person’s soulmate would say to them; the key to connecting them. Though, even then, the idea that this _soulmate_ might be someone special had taken the growth of larger societies to form in full.

The children who learnt about all of the fantastic _legend_ and history attached to soulmates in today’s world – including Rick and Vyvyan, until the latter had stopped bothering to attend school – were usually bursting with excitement about it and what their soulmate would be like. To be fair, Rick certainly had been when he was a child; he could hardly believe that there was someone waiting for _him_ , someone who would be just as happy to finally meet him when the occasion arrived!

Someone pleased to see him who wasn’t _mummy and daddy_.

Vyvyan would always tell people that he hadn’t been the _least_ bit interested in who his soulmate was, even as a child. This wasn’t true in most complete sense… because he _had_ been curious about what was written beneath the state issued glove all children under 11 had to wear to “preserve their innocence”. Because soulmates were for grown ups. At least, they had been since 1829.

However, ever the rascal that he was, it wasn’t the greatest surprise in the world when a 6 year old Vyvyan Basterd managed to _accidentally_ – although, really, quite _deliberately_ – rip open the tatty glove covering his right hand and get a glimpse of the word it was hiding.

And he hadn’t understood it.

“Fass kissed?”

Who walked up to a person and said gibberish like that?

On the other hand, his mother certainly _had_ understood it; she had understood it only too well. Vyvyan had gotten a right telling off that night – he was sore for _weeks_. There was _no way_ his new glove was coming off before the proper time. No way _at all_.

Later on, when his 11th birthday had been and passed and Vyvyan had finally learnt the meaning and connotations behind the word on his hand, his heavily intoxicated mother would tell him one evening that his birth was forever marred in her memory. The revelation that this _particular_ word was etched into her newborn son had profoundly affected her outlook on motherhood – or, at least, that was _her_ excuse. The words on baby’s hands had to be recorded at birth so the government knew, she had ranted, _everyone_ knew that Vyvyan was destined to be a-

And that was why Vyvyan had become a punk, really. To try and starve off what was apparently inevitable. And also because he was deeply, _deeply_ angry.

Who even believed in this soulmates bollocks anyway? Superstitious nonsense.

Rick had tried to take this view for himself too after the crushing let down of _his_ 11th birthday. He would never forget the sorry faces of his parents as his eager eyes drank in the two words set boldly against the pale skin of his left hand. Those two words had confirmed that all the bullies at school were right: no one wanted him, no one would like him, no one would ever _love_ him. No one but mummy and daddy – and maybe even _that_ was just pity more than anything else. His birth must have been _dreadfully_ embarrassing.

Rick Pratt had cried himself to sleep that night. His 11th birthday had been a Sunday, which meant he had to go to school the next day and face all the boys he had bragged to about what _wonderous_ thing his soulmate was _surely_ going to say to him when they met. He desperately tried to convince himself that soulmates weren’t _real_ and that all the mythos and importance attached to them was out-dated and stupid. It was all just a joke that had been made up eons ago and they had all fallen for it.

_Right?_

Over the years, this did become ever so slightly easier to believe. After all, once upon a time society had more or less forced all soulmates into romance and persecuted those with same-sex soulmates – something that Rick found evermore abhorrent as his teenage years progressed. Even today, not all churches even _agreed_ to marrying those who were non-soulmates and Rick often caught the looks people gave to soulmates who existed purely as friends. Did he really want to buy into _this_?

No. It _wasn’t_ quite as exciting or perfect as the kids were taught it all was. It was actually quite unfair and unjust and not _right_. Rick _didn’t_ _want_ to buy into it. No thanks, matey.

As a result, he had sworn to himself at 18 as part of his immersion into anarchism that he would _never_ let the word _soulless_ pass his lips when describing one of the few people less fortunate than himself: those who were born with _nothing_ on their hands. Neil – the only person from his days at school whom Rick would have regarded as anything _close_ to a friend, even if he had been a _hippie drip_ – hadn’t had anything written on his hands. Perhaps that was why he and Rick had found themselves together so often; no one else wanted them. No one wanted to be near the soulless boy and the boy whose own soulmate so clearly _detested_ him.

Rick couldn’t coexist with the system that had once assumed people like Neil to be pure evil. There were horrific tales from the past of mothers smothering babies born with nothing on either hand because it was believed that this signified a lack of a soulmate and therefore a lack of a soul itself. Rick, having known Neil, could categorically call this nonsense out for the unfounded bigotry that it was and personally preferred the view that to have nothing on your hands meant that you and your soulmate simply weren’t ever going to meet. It was depressing, true, but having been around Neil and his unabating waves of depression, it seemed unfortunately likely.

Still – and maybe this was the _really_ depressing part – sometimes Rick wished he could have nothing written on his hands too, just like Neil. It would be better than whenever he had to meet his soulmate and they came out and said _that_ to him! The ruddy cheek…

This mixture of angst was what brought both Rick and Vyvyan to the shadiest tattoo parlour in Hammersmith in summer of 1984 – the closest tattoo parlour that dished out hand tattoos, under the counter and if you had enough bread. Rick and Vyvyan were now 21 and had been living with the consequences of what was written on their hands for over a decade.

It was time to tell fate just where it could _stick it_.

***

“ _Yes, we’ve got a video!_ ”

Vyvyan’s perpetually loud voice rang out as he crashed into the thankfully empty tattoo parlour at 10am that morning. The punk crashed just about everywhere – including street corners and alleyways when nightfall came – so it was a force of habit by now.

Here he was: _Balowski’s Big Boys_. The most unpopular business in the whole of south east England. It was no wonder they offered hand tattoos, that was probably all that was keeping the place afloat! Vyvyan could tell by the layers of dust on the surfaces of the tables and cupboards that it wasn’t a place that was frequently visited by the people of Hammersmith. In fact, there was only one picture of an example tattoo in the whole shop – of something the punk guessed was _supposed_ to be an A for anarchy. In actuality, it looked more like a poorly formed triangle.

He couldn’t be picky, though. Not in his situation.

Behind the counter, a bald and almost entirely inked up man glanced over from this week’s copy of _Socialist Worker_ to acknowledge Vyvyan’s destructive presence. He must have been alerted by the code phrase spoken upon the punk’s arrival yet didn’t even bat an eyelid at the door now hanging off its hinges.

“You’re here for a hand job, are you?” he asked casually, revealing a thick Scouse accent.

Opting for once in his life to ignore the obvious double entendre, Vyvyan nodded.

“That I am!” he confirmed, marching forwards and slamming the filthy pile of money he had been saving up down on the counter, prompting dust bunnies to fly everywhere, “And make it quick – I’ve got somewhere to be.”

Coincidentally, he didn’t. He never did; Vyvyan just hated being around most people.

“Alright, pal, _alright_. I do have other customers to attend to, you know?” the man – presumably Balowski – reminded him. The punk looked around the empty shop and scrunched his face up in confusion. Balowski smiled. “However, because you’ve asked _so_ nicely, I’ll squeeze you in now. Alright, sir?”

Vyvyan nodded warily – he wasn’t entirely sure if the man was attempting to joke with him or whether he was a bit off his rocker.

“Thanks,” he muttered.

Balowski nodded, coming around from the counter and cracking his knuckles in preparation.

“Did you have any design in mind then, sir? Whatever you’ve got must be pretty bad if you’re willing to pay _that much_ to cover it up,” he quipped.

Vyvyan had to count to three before he bothered responding. _He didn’t mean anything; he was just making conversation; there was no need for him to lose his temper…_

“Yeah, well,” the punk coughed, “I’m not one for excess. I was thinking a black star or something? I just want it covered.”

“Sounds simple enough – give us a look at the bastard.”

And now for the moment of truth. Bitter experience had taught Vyvyan not to show the back of his right hand off to people lightly, not even people you thought wouldn’t mind that much or were open-minded enough not to judge someone _entirely_ by a _one-off comment_ some _randomer_ would one day make to them. Still, every scar was a lesson, wasn’t it?

Very slowly, he shrugged his hand out from his jean pocket and peeled off the bits of old leather and newspaper he had been using to cover up the monstrosity. In some ways, he was lucky to still _have_ a right hand after the neglect he put his through!

Once it was laid bare on the counter, Vyvyan realised they were going to have a problem; he was perceptive like that.

“Huh…” Balowski remarked, scratching his chin and gently sliding the pile of money out of Vyvyan’s reach. Somehow, his smile had turned slimy. “You’re not one of them Nazi punks are you, kid?”

Right. That was it.

“ _Of course_ I’m bloody not! Why do you think I’m paying you to cover it up!?” Vyvyan snapped at him.

“I don’t know…” Balowski responded shiftily, no longer willing to meet his eyes, “Maybe that’s _why_ you want me to cover it up, so no one knows your dirty secret.”

“I don’t _have_ a dirty secret!”

“How do I know that?”

“You don’t need to _know_ anything! You _need_ to do your bloody job!”

“I’m not sure I like your tone, sir.”

Oh god, everything was already _ruined_! How long had it taken him to save up for this? Nine months? Ten? All for the tattoo artist to get uppity and superior!

“Look, how can that _possibly_ be a good reflection of who I am? It’s _one_ word! You must have covered up worse – I mean, what does yours say?” Vyvyan grabbed the older man’s hands, making his eyes bulge in momentary panic. “Ah, see _? ‘Is that your real hair?’_ Is that who you are? A bald git who wears wigs to impress the birds? Really?”

Balowski snatched his hands back indignantly and returned to his place behind the counter. If the punk hadn’t known any better, he would have sworn he saw him patting at his head self-consciously.

“I’m going to have to ask you to leave-”

“But I’m _not a Nazi!_ ” Vyvyan insisted, irritated at the desperation in his voice.

“I have the right to refuse you as a customer,” Balowski pointed out.

Vyvyan sighed. The rage was coursing through his veins at full speed now – he needed to punch something. Or _someone_. Realistically, it was for the best if he left here quickly. Maybe he could leave London and search for a tattoo artist elsewhere?

“Fine, fine! Give me my money back and I’ll go,” he conceded.

That shifty look passed over Balowski’s face again.

“Well… all property _is_ theft, you know…”

His money had entirely disappeared. In that instant, Vyvyan saw red.

“ _THEN I SUPPOSE YOU WON’T HAVE A PROBLEM IF I LEAVE WITH_ YOUR HEAD _TUCKED UNDERNEATH MY ELBOW THEN, WILL YOU!?_ ”

***

“Have we got a video?” Rick practiced under his breath.

It was the wrong phrase for hand tattoos at _Balowski’s Big Boys_ , which he would have discovered if he had _actually gotten_ _to test it out_ on Balowski. The humiliation of screwing up so quickly in somewhere so working class might have been too much for the self-styled anarchist and may have led to him running off home before any money could even change hands.

Luckily, or unluckily, Rick wouldn’t get the chance to find out.

He was just approaching what he was fast discovering to be the _broken_ door to _Balowski’s Big Boys_ when there was a terrible crashing sound from within, followed by what could only be described as _roaring_. It startled him, if Rick was honest, and this was why he paused before coming into the doorway. _This was why_ an infuriated Vyvyan Basterd smashed right into his shoulder as he stormed out, blue eyes shining ablaze and a newly sliced cut gushing crimson down his right cheek.

The impact of the punk to Rick’s body was much like that of car – or, what Rick assumed being hit by a car must feel like, as he _had_ managed to squirm his way out of the sixth formers’ grips at 15 before getting chance to find out for sure. The main point was: that had _hurt_. And Rick was already feeling on edge as it was. What right did this scruffy bastard have in almost dislocating his shoulder!?

He reacted without thinking.

“ _Fascist!_ ”

Now Vyvyan – _oh ho ho, Vyvyan_ – was already so wound up with the unfairness of being rejected by bloody _Balowski’s Big Boys_ and losing his only savings to boot that the enormity of the word just spoken to him didn’t register in the way it should have done. Although this was the word that he felt had defined his life’s trajectory for the past decade, hearing it right after a fight made it sound like another taunt from someone who had clearly glimpsed the writing on his hand. When he took in Rick’s appearance, his line of thinking was further reinforced. This was just an unwise taunt from a spotty little so-and-so in a blazer.

Quite like Rick a few seconds earlier, Vyvyan responded to this insult without much thought.

“ _Piss off!_ ”

And that was when _everything_ _suddenly_ registered with the two of them. Oh… _oh no_.

Rick’s face was a white slate of shock: his eyes wide, mouth open, small beads of cold sweat fast gathering on his brow. Vyvyan looked as though he may have cracked that very moment. For about ten seconds, they only stared at each other, hearts thundering in their chests in absolute disbelief whilst their stomachs accompanied with adrenaline-induced backflips.

Then the shouting began.

“ _YOU BASTARD!_ ” the two of them hollered simultaneously.

Wait, _what!?_

“ _Oh!?_ Oh, so I’m a _bastard_ , am I… whoever the ruddy heck you are!? _Me?_ The one you just told to _piss off!_ ” Rick fumed.

Vyvyan couldn’t believe this.

“Yes, you are actually, _knob-face!_ ” he bit back, enjoying the expression of outrage that flittered across the strange boy’s face at this name, “Because – if you don’t remember, what with it being about a minute ago – you called me a _fascist!_ And you didn’t even bloody _mean_ it!”

God, this was perhaps worse than his soulmate screaming the word at him because Vyvyan was truly the description that went with it, which is what he had feared would happen. He should have _known_! Shouldn’t have let all those _bastards_ get in his head! Why would he suddenly turn fascist, or Nazi or even bloody _Tory?_ Was he not in control of who he was and what he believed? _Of course_ he bloody well was! And here was the proof, standing right in front of him in badges and pigtails: _Vyvyan Basterd was not a fascist and never would be._

His soulmate just happened to be a complete and utter _tosser!_

The punk clenched and unclenched his fists in mourning for the life he could have lived without that _lie_ smeared across his hand. Without this prick fucking everything up. It was almost too much to bear.

“Do you know how _bloody difficult_ my life’s been because some girly _twat_ with spots and greasy hair thought comparing me to _Adolf bloody Hitler_ when we first met was the reasonable thing to do!?” he screamed at him.

Rick found himself blinking in a rather dumbstruck fashion for a moment as his reeling mind processed this unexpectedly emotional ranting. Calling people fascists… that was just what he _did_. Usually under his breath or whenever politics was mentioned on the news. He had never thought his anarchism, something so personal, had been affecting another person for even longer than it had been affecting Rick.

Unfortunately, this was quite a self-aware thought for Rick Pratt and so it had to be quickly replaced with another that was fuelled purely by self-defensiveness.

“ _What did you just call me!?_ ”

He felt for his trendy youth braids self-consciously.

“You heard!” Vyvyan nigh on growled, rubbing stubbornly at his eye.

The punk was huffing and puffing like some kind of feral _beast_. If Balowski had tickled the fuse to his irritation, Rick had well and truly burnt down the Reichstag! There was at least a quarter of a second where the anarchist was sure the dirty, bleeding car wreck of a person before him was about to lunge for his _throat_.

For _pity’s sake_! Rick had known since 11 that his soulmate wasn’t _very nice_ – he hadn’t realised they were blummin’ _deranged_ and out for his blood!

“W-well, you’re hardly the picture of attraction yourself!” he scoffed at him, swallowing in a tellingly anxious manner, “Do you live on the _streets_ or something?”

This would have been scathingly witty if the crusty, tri-hawked cretin hadn’t nodded in response.

“Yes – because of _you_! Because people don’t want to employ or even bloody house a genocidal maniac!”

“Oh…”

“Is that all you’ve got to say? _‘Oh’_?”

Rick bristled at the suddenly threatening undertone.

“It’s not like it’s been roses for me either! Do you know what it’s like to be labelled as the boy who’s so unlikable, even his soulmate wants him to _piss off!? Do you!?_ ” The school time memories were bringing the colour back to Rick’s cheeks with a vengeance. “My 11th birthday was the worst day of my _entire life!_ All thanks to _you!_ ”

Unsurprisingly, Vyvyan was not moved in the least by this. Honestly, did this pompous twerp think a bit of ribbing at school was in anyway comparable to hostility and disgust from everyone you met? Had his parents not bought him enough birthday presents to smooth over the humiliation of being unpopular with his poncey peers?

“I’m probably on some government watchlist because of you!” the punk insisted, trying to get him to see the severity of what he had done, “Would you want Thatch nosing in on your every move!?”

At the mention of the Prime Minister, his soulmate only seemed to grow angrier.

“Of course I blummin’ well wouldn’t! I’m an _anarchist!_ ” He gestured to his get-up, as if Vyvyan was thick for not noticing.

“That’s funny, because I thought you were some middle class poseur,” he remarked, allowing for a small smirk to spread across his lips.

“ _How dare you!?_ You don’t know me!”

“And you don’t know me, but that didn’t seem to stop you dictating my life’s path from _birth!_ ”

“I didn’t know _this_ wasn’t going to happen, did I!? Don’t blame me for whatever sad excuse for a life you’ve got!” Rick jeered at him, though the wavering stability in his voice was a sign of just how secure he felt in that statement.

“Then don’t blame me for yours!” Vyvyan told him.

“I’m not!”

“You are!”

Rick sighed.

“Look-”

“ _OI!_ ” the tired and slightly pained shout of Balowski rang out, making the anarchist jump. The tattoo artist was leaning over the counter again with a bag of frozen peas from 1972 pressed against his forehead. “Can you two sort out your business somewhere else, please? You’re scaring away the customers.”

“You don’t _get_ any customers!” Vyvyan spat at him.

This whole wasted day had gone on long enough already. Before Rick had the chance to add his thoughts to this huge pile of excrement, Vyvyan shoved passed him once more and took of down the street. He needed to get away – _far away_ – and punch a wall.

“Charming…” Rick muttered at the hastily retreating figure.

Balowski coughed from inside the shop.

“Are you coming in here, mate?” he fished.

Somehow, the strength behind Rick’s purpose today had lessened after that impromptu meeting with his _delightful_ soulmate. In one respect, the confirmation that the person he was meant to _“click”_ with so easily was as horrid as he had always known they would be did boost his conviction that the soulmate ideology was just that – an ideology. Nevertheless, the shock of it all had knocked the wind right out of his sails. He held his left hand up to his face and peered morosely at his two least favourite words.

“No…” he finally told Balowski with a sigh, “What’s the _ruddy_ point?”

***

Rick and Vyvyan didn’t see hide nor hair of each other for a fortnight.

Fortunate really, as West London probably couldn’t handle their explosiveness at such heights; their cooling off period was _sorely_ needed. Even when they did meet up again, it was entirely by chance. It wasn’t as if either of them had ever made plans to have anything to do with their soulmates from the limited information they had garnered from their hands – why on earth would such a rotten first meeting change their minds?

The stroppy anarchist had told the only people he knew would care about their eventful meeting – mummy and daddy – the evening of the day it had happened. Naturally, it would have been hard to hide it from them for long, what with him living with them and all. Rick was never that good at keeping things to himself mummy in particular _always_ wanted to know what he was up to so this seemed like a _gargantuan_ secret to keep under wraps. Quite expectedly, both of his parents had been apologetic at the news.

Such was the patheticness of his life.

_It didn’t matter about his soulmate; he could find happiness elsewhere. Definitely. What were the young people saying these days? You don’t need a soulmate to be complete? There you are, Richard, it’s entirely acceptable. Never you mind about the grandchildren, dear… no bother at all… we promise…_

On the other hand, Vyvyan didn’t have anyone in particular _to_ tell. Not that he wanted to empty his guts to someone about his personal business.

About four days after the event, whilst huddling for warmth under a cardboard box in the rain, he had mentioned it to Mike, more as a way of distracting them from the cold than because he truly wanted to tell him. Mike was probably the only other homeless person Vyvyan had anything close to a camaraderie with, even if Mike was a little odd. The main thing was – he had never asked to see what was written on Vyvyan’s hand. Come to think of it, Vyvyan wasn’t even sure what was written on Mike’s…

“At least it’s done now, Vyv,” Mike had told him after the ever so slightly fictionalised tale the punk had given him, “Now you can get on with the rest of your life.”

Whether or not this was said in irony, Vyvyan hadn’t been able to tell. Mike wore a pair of old sunglasses at almost all times so the _windows to his soul_ were very much shut. Such a funny guy…

And _yet_ … when the two bastards saw each other again, both would have to admit that an improvement in attitudes had been made. It was the homeless punk who spotted the spotty anarchist first.

“Hello, _soulmate_ ,” Vyvyan piped up from the pavement as Rick strode on by one nippy morning, “You got a thing for Hammersmith or something?” He didn’t like how croaky his voice was getting.

Startled, Rick stopped and immediately looked his way.

“God, you look _awful!_ ” he told him before he could really help himself.

Vyvyan nodded; it was true, after all. It wasn’t as if a life on the street equipped you with secret physical health benefits… it was quite the opposite, actually…

“And I see you’re still a wanker,” he returned with a smile. The bastard couldn’t claim Vyvyan wasn’t at least _trying_ here. _Why_ he was trying was another question. He must have been bored.

Rick rolled his eyes at the comment but decided to hold his tongue on firing back, which surprised both of them. There was an awkward pause of silence where neither seemed to know what to say. What _did_ you say to someone you had so vehemently hated for over a decade?

“Have you got a name, poof?” Vyvyan asked.

Rick scoffed.

“That’s rich – you’re clearly just as poofy as me!” he pointed out smugly. Vyvyan shrugged. “Uh, I’m… Richard… but I go by Rick.”

“I’m Vyvyan. With two Ys.”

Both eyed the other up suspiciously, seemingly waiting for the other to take the piss; having rhoticism when your name began with an R was a constant struggle, as was being a boy called Vyvyan.

“That’s… nice…” Rick eventually said.

Vyvyan laughed through his nose.

“Yeah, it’s just _absolutely fabulous_. Is there a reason you’re here, Rick? I’m assuming you weren’t hunting around for _me_.”

“Well, no… I mean, _yes_ there is a reason I’m here and _no_ I wasn’t _hunting_ for you, Vyvyan,” Rick assured him with a disturbed shudder. “Not that _you’d_ care… but I was going back to _Balowski’s Big Boys_ to get my hand tattooed. _Properly_ this time,” he explained.

“What? _You?_ Never!” Vyvyan dismissed him with a wave of his clean hand. “You’d cry when the needle appeared.”

At this, Rick’s eyes widened.

“I _would_ not!” he protested, “What did you think I’d come to do last time? Smile at the locals? Just because I’ve not _roughed_ it on the streets like you doesn’t mean I’m a complete _wet lettuce_ , you know!”

There was another awkward pause where Rick squirmed under the weight of what he had just said.

“You might be a wetter lettuce than you’d thought, prick,” Vyvyan muttered bitterly.

“Alright, alright – I wasn’t thinking, I didn’t mean it like _that!_ ” Rick quickly gabbled, “And listen, I’ve been doing some thinking, right-”

“Oh, this should be interesting!” Vyvyan interrupted with false enthusiasm. He sat up straight and placed his hands on his knees like all the little kids at primary school used to do. “My soulmate’s been doing some thinking! _Do enlighten me_ on what precisely I did to fuck my life up!”

Strangely, Rick wasn’t bristling in the way the punk had expected him to at this obvious goading. Instead, he still appeared to be squirming slightly and something akin to sheepishness was now crawling across his features.

“I just thought that… well, I couldn’t _possibly_ have known, _of course_ , that you were my soulmate and when we met I was going to say… what I said… but- and it isn’t my fault the fasc- I mean, the _bastards_ in charge care so much about these stupid things on our hands so it _really isn’t my fault at all_ that you’re homeless and no one likes you-”

“This is shaping up to be a great apology.”

“ _I haven’t got to that bit yet!_ ”

Rick took a deep breath to calm himself and looked Vyvyan directly in the eye; an uncomfortably intimate act for both parties involved.

“What I’m trying to say is: I’m sorry I called you a fascist, Vyvyan.”

Was he serious? The poof sounded serious. Vyvyan wasn’t sure whether he should throttle him for apologising when there was _nothing_ he could do to make things better or keep staring at him like a fool because _someone_ – his _soulmate_ , no less – was sorry for assuming he was about to join the BNP. How on earth was he supposed to react to that!?

“…I wouldn’t go to Balowski if I were you, Rick,” the punk blurted out after about thirty seconds of mental radio silence.

At first, Rick’s lip curled with indignation at the fact that Vyvyan was apparently ignoring his profoundly out of character, heartfelt admission and changing the subject – but that _wasn’t_ Vyvyan’s intention. He groaned, feeling his cheeks heat up.

“No, no – he’s a _con artist_ , that’s what I mean! He took all my savings and wouldn’t even go near my hand!” the punk expanded. “Don’t waste your money, po-”

“He did _what!?_ ”

Suddenly, Rick looked just as angry as Vyvyan felt embarrassed. That must have been something they had in common – _short tempers_.

“He _is_ the least rated business in-”

“I know that! I was _prepared_ for that!” Rick ranted, not convincing Vyvyan that he was prepared for that. “But that’s _stealing!_ That’s-”

“Illegal?” Vyvyan supplied.

“Exactly!”

“So is pissing outside Number 10, prick, but that didn’t stop me.”

“But it’s not _fair!_ You don’t have anything to fall back on or anyone to rely on or-” He cut himself off and gaped at the punk before him for a moment, eyes filling with awe. “Did you really urinate outside of Number 10, Vyvyan!? _Right on!_ That’ll show them!”

The fact that Rick was wholly earnest when he said this spoke volumes to Vyvyan and yet… he supposed it was kind of endearing, in a way, to be so wilfully ignorant whilst still trying to understand how the world worked. Either that or extremely bloody annoying and entitled. Maybe both. Maybe it didn’t matter. The punk chuckled at him.

“The Tories’ll be defeated one piss at a time, just you wait…”

***

Naturally – because he really _wasn’t_ a fascist – Vyvyan declined Rick’s offer to go and “show Balowski who was in charge around here, _matey_ ” and managed to convince him not to bother with the tattoo at all. At least, not today. Not with Balowski.

Neither were sure how it happened but Rick ended up sat next to Vyvyan, their backs against the cold brick walls of the _Lamb and Flag_ and their bottoms secretly freezing against the dirty pavement. When Rick considered it, perhaps it was only _his_ bottom freezing – Vyvyan was probably a lot more resistant by now.

He could have just taken the bus back home and returned to comfort, he doubted Vyvyan would have minded him going. Still, it felt rude and the opportunity never arose. There was always something else to say; another question to ask. Rick didn’t _want_ to go.

Were they… _getting along?_

“Why are you sat outside a pub, anyway?” the anarchist found himself inquiring some hours after Vyvyan had first grabbed his attention. By now, the _Lamb and Flag’s_ regulars were beginning to arrive and liven up.

“It’s as good a place as any.” Vyvyan shrugged.

Rick shuddered.

“But it’s _awfully_ loud in there. Besides, isn’t it a bit… dangerous? Hasn’t anyone ever tried to mug you?” he asked.

Now, that was a funny question. Vyvyan had to pat Rick’s shoulder and bark out a laugh for that one. The so-called anarchist frowned at him in confusion like only a sheltered prick could.

“Not anymore often than anyone else – I’m usually pretty invisible,” the punk assured him, “Sometimes I get the occasional pint spilt on me, that’s always good.”

“ _Eugh!_ ”

That was something Vyvyan had noticed during their day together, actually: Rick’s face was ever so animated. Calling the emotion currently contorting his features _disgust_ didn’t fully cover the range. He mulled over whether he had a point about second-hand lager spillages being gross and scrunched up his own face. Huh…

“Cliff, is that the time!?” Rick suddenly squeaked.

Vyvyan glanced over at the clock just visible inside the pub, which read 5:15pm. He nodded.

“Who’s _Cliff?_ ”

“Cliff Richard,” Rick explained hurriedly, rushing to his feet and rubbing the feeling back into his legs.

“Should have known you’d be into him, you big poof,” Vyvyan teased him.

A grimace broke out on Rick’s face as he brushed the stray flecks of granite from the back of his jeans.

“Oh, ha ha! And I bet you like…”

“Yes?”

“Uh… uh… oh, one of those punk bands! You know who I mean!” he grumbled.

“Brilliant, prick.”

“I’ve got to go, Vyv, I’m going to be late for tea!” Rick told him, leaving the remark about his lack of musical knowledge to go unchallenged. To be honest, Vyvyan was more shocked by his spontaneous use of a nickname than the anarchist’s abrupt departure.

“Oh… well… bye, then,” he offered, even waving with his left hand.

Rick rolled his eyes as he felt around his pockets for his bus fare.

“I’ll _come back_ , don’t sound so lost,” he chastised him.

Vyvyan blinked.

“Come back?” he repeated.

“Yes. I mean, we are _soulmates_ , aren’t we? And maybe I misjudged you the other week – you’ve been a lot ruddy nicer this time,” he waffled. His mind’s thought processes must have worked in mysterious ways. When, at last, Rick found the change he needed, he looked back at Vyvyan, suddenly unsure. “That is… if you _want_ me to come back?”

Quite by instinct, Vyvyan nodded briskly. Rick sighed in what looked like relief and took off down the street, towards the bus station, in a ridiculous little trot. The punk almost let him get away before an all-important thought occurred to him.

“ _Oi, Rick!_ ”

Rick immediately jumped in fright and turned around again.

“What? _What!?_ I’m really going to be late, Vyvyan!” he whined.

“I’m sorry I told you to piss off!” the punk yelled over.

And he was. _Mostly_. Reasonable reaction though it had been at the time.

A foreign look of emotion was just about visible on Rick’s face – he _was_ a considerable distance away from the punk now and Vyvyan hadn’t had working glasses in years. This conversation was getting a little _too_ soppy, was it not?

“ _Oh, Vyv_ , that’s-”

“NOW _PISS OFF_ HOME AND HAVE YOUR TEA!” Vyvyan hollered at top volume, grinning hugely.

Thankfully, this comment was met a snort-filled laugh, one that somehow briefly blocked out the drunken sounds of the _Lamb and Flag_.

“ _FASCIST!_ ” Rick retorted, equally loudly.

It was silly; _they_ were silly. A month ago, if anyone had dared to utter these words in their presence, they both would have blown their stacks. What had changed? Well, for the first time in over a decade, hearing those word didn’t hurt. At least, not as much; they had time to work on that.

Maybe it was a _soulmates thing_.

**Author's Note:**

> This week on "How Many Bottom References Can I Cram Into A TYO Fic?" XD
> 
> Thank you for reading, I hope you've enjoyed! I like the idea of this Soulmates AU and I know Rick and Vyv would make things work. Maybe they could figure out how to give each other stick and poke tattoos as a sort of bonding exercise?
> 
> I'm sorry if their sudden positivity towards each other felt at all rushed or undeserved, I didn't want this to get too long and *technically* this Rick and Vyv have a few different life experiences to the canon bastards so I think they're just generally more touch starved. That's why Rick came around to Vyv's point of view after only a couple of weeks. XD He knows what being unwanted feels like - more so than actual Rick, who is also unwanted but in denial about it. And poor Vyvyan here is obviously having a tough life.
> 
> ANYWAY, enough from me!
> 
> Happy Birthday again to EvilEd! Since I can't give you a physical gift, I hope this weird fic will do! <3


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